


Dearer Than Gold

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [9]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Domestic, Dragon Merlin (Merlin), Dragonspeak, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: The definition of treasure is subjective.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737112
Comments: 33
Kudos: 853
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	Dearer Than Gold

"You know, not that I don't appreciate the rescue, but was it necessary for you to set the _entire_ camp on fire?" Arthur asks, voice oddly muffled as he leans over the washbasin, trying to rinse the worst of the soot from his hair.

"Yes." Merlin walks over with a washrag, dunking it in the warm water and swiping it over the nape of Arthur's neck, holding his collar out of the way. He would've called for a bath already, but the stubborn ass insisted he'd be fine without one for the night. Normally, he would've argued the point, but he doesn't feel much for it now.

Either way, the prince-regent seems to enjoy this more. He tilts his head a little further forward, giving a little hum of satisfaction as the cloth strokes over his neck; water trickles through his hair, beading on the ends of the overlong strands.

"Are you alright, _îshta?_ Did they harm you?" Merlin asks. He dunks the cloth, wrings it out, and returns to his ministrations, more out of personal self-indulgence than need. Arthur rarely gives anyone his back, let alone his throat, and it makes something possessive and desirous in him curl up and _purr_ to be allowed this, brushing his thumb across soft skin stretched over delicate bone.

Arthur opens one eye and tilts his head just enough to cast an amused glance up at him with it. "They're already dead, Merlin."

Yes, but that doesn't mean he can't go back and grind their charred remains into greasy soot stains to make himself feel better. He nearly repeats the question, seeing as how Arthur didn't actually _answer_ him, but he lets it go. There'll be time enough for him to get a proper look later on. As it is, he cannot smell blood on Arthur, so he'll count the answer as no. For now.

He wrings out the cloth a final time and drapes it over the side of the washbasin to dry. As Arthur straightens up, he curls both hands around the other man's wrists, holding him in place, and slides his hands up slowly, palms pressed flat. If asked, he would've said that he was looking for any tears he'd have to mend. In truth, he's gauging Arthur's every reaction for any stifled flinch or indrawn breath should he touch some undisclosed injury hidden behind the stoicism of misguided masculinity.

"You need to be more careful," Arthur murmurs; Merlin snorts, hands sliding over the breadth of his shoulders, down to his chest. Sword-callused fingers touch his chin, raising his gaze, gentle yet commanding. "I mean it. Do you know the unholy hell I would have to deal with should some poor fool from one of the forest villages see you? No doubt they'd come riding hell-for-leather to the citadel, howling about it all the way, and then I would have to take a party of knights out just to shut them all up. Imagine that. I'd be out in the forest hunting for you whilst you're riding next to me."

Whilst the image is an amusing one— _how many knights does it take to find a dragon?_ —Merlin only presses his lips together and doesn't answer. For one, it's hilarious that Arthur Pendragon is actually telling him to be careful as though he doesn't attempt to duel magical beasts and entirely-too-capable sorcerers with a pointy metal _stick_ on a regular basis. For another, he doesn't want to explain that he's not certain he could've done different or would do any differently if—when—it happens again. There are no words that could hope to encompass all he feels when that which is _his_ is threatened, and trying to control it is to try and bottle a firestorm.

No one can take what is his. Not anyone. To have is nothing, to keep is all, and he intends to keep Arthur. And he will answer any who try to take him with blood and fire.

At his silence, Arthur gives a small, wry smile. "I would do better speaking to the wall, wouldn't I?" he muses, tickling under his chin and laughing when Merlin snaps at his fingers in retaliation. "Well, at least you aren't so conspicuous as that other old scorch." He grins, taking on a gently mocking tone, "You're nice and small."

Merlin rolls his eyes skyward and slides his arms around Arthur's waist so he can drag both hands down his back, following the lines of his spine and ribs, knowing the shape of him even through his layers. Yes, he is smaller than Kilgharrah in his dragon form, but that is because Kilgharrah is so damned _old._ Unlike the lesser species, Great Dragons continue to grow throughout their lives, stopping only in the last century or so. Not that it made any difference to the prat.

"Also, what does that mean?"

"What does _what_ mean?" He digs his fingers into the tender spots under Arthur's ribs to make him startle and yelp. Not that he's ticklish or anything. No, not at all. Just…sensitive. Of course.

"That word you called me a moment ago."

_"Îshta?"_

"Yes, that. What does it mean?"

Merlin lets his hands slide downward, tracing low along his waist below his belt. The sweet-spicy scent of arousal threads delicately over the prince-regent's skin, making him smile. "I might tell you one day. Maybe." Which means never, because he will _never_ hear the end of it, calling Arthur his beloved, no matter how true it is.

Arthur scoffs and gives a playful half-shove against him. He walks over to the bed and sits down heavily on the end, scratching at the rough stubble on his jaw. "Bring the razor tomorrow, would you?"

"Are you certain? I know you like it. Even if you are a hypocrite," Merlin remarks, reaching up to touch his own jaw. Arthur _hates_ it when he has even the slightest hint of a beard. The last time he had visited Ealdor, he hadn't bothered to shave whilst he was gone, and when he had returned to Camelot, Arthur had given him _one_ kiss and refused to touch him again until he went under the razor.

"I am _not_ a hypocrite, and yes, I'm certain. Now get over here."

Obediently, Merlin crosses the room to him, intending to kneel and remove Arthur's boots, but instead finds himself being snagged by the belt and tugged forward into an embrace. "Will you stay tonight? Or do you have a great pile of gold somewhere to sleep on now?" Arthur teases, voice muffled against Merlin's stomach, arms draped loose about his hips. "Provided you've not spent it all at the tavern, of course."

"Ass," he grumbles but still runs his fingers through the back of all that tousled hair, making note to coax the man out into the sun more often, get some colour back in him.

Arthur knows so little about dragons; he doesn't yet realise that the definition of treasure is subjective. Why should Merlin bother himself collecting something so tawdry as _things_ when there's so much more that is _worth_ so much more?

 _"Er-miriik,"_ he murmurs. My fate. _"Er-viseyn. Er-îshta."_ My king. My beloved.

"And I ask again, what in seven hells are you saying?"

He twines his fingers through Arthur's hair as he couldn't before. "I don't know what you mean."

Arthur huffs a laugh, breath warm sinking through his tunic, but then he's quiet for a span of heartbeats. His thumbs trace abstract patterns in the small of Merlin's back, rubbing over the dip of his spine. "Will you stay?" he repeats, softer, lower.

Merlin lowers his head and presses his lips to the top of Arthur's head, breathing in the warm scent of him, the feeling of _home_ and _safe_ thrumming in his bones. "I'll stay."

Dragons always sleep best with their treasure.


End file.
